


A Budding Interest

by merelypassingtime



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, Babylock, But not really in the way you are thinking, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Humor, M/M, Parentlock, asexual reproduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-01 02:04:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8602954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merelypassingtime/pseuds/merelypassingtime
Summary: In which Sherlock puts his mind to the messy problem of reproduction and John finds out that his flatmate can still surprise him.





	1. Chapter One

They had been several days in between cases and John was starting to worry. 

Things had been going fairly normally or at least they had for the given value of normal in 221B. Their last case had been a solid seven according to Sherlock and it had kept them running for almost three days. The running had been a bit too literal for John when he and Sherlock had been forced to chase the forger turned killer through a warren of council flats and drainage pipes. Sherlock had been thrilled, John had hidden it better.

John had not been surprised when after the case was all wrapped up Sherlock crashed in the cab on the way home. He had been forced to all but drag the exhausted man up the stairs to the flat and push him into the bathroom to rinse the stench of stagnate water and decay off him before tucking him into bed for twenty straight hours of sleep. 

That is where things began to deviate. On a standard post-case time-line after the day of sleep came two to three days of pajamas and experiments, followed by a day of sulking, then a day of advanced sulking, before culminating in nicotine withdraw fueled tantrums and gunfire. 

Things had looked to be on track when John had returned home from covering a shift at the surgery to find that every single scrap of food in the flat was gone. In most households he knew saying, 'There is nothing to eat' was really a hyperbole meaning there was nothing one felt like eating but, as was so often the case around Sherlock, other people's hyperbole was his literal truth. Everything was gone, from the things one would expect like the biscuits and the bread to the few cooking staples they kept on hand like the flour and sugar. Even the jars and bottles of condiments like mustard and jam had been carefully emptied out and lined up on the counter. Equally gone was the infuriating berk of a detective who had ransacked the kitchen.

John considered finding him then using a yard of twine, two paperclips, and a can of compressed air on him in a way he had heard about in the army. Then he saw that the box of tea had been left conspicuously full and next to the kettle. Maybe he would let Sherlock live just this once he thought as he clicked on the kettle and set about making himself a cup of tea. He opened the drawer they kept the take-away menus in and went about his evening fully expecting Sherlock to flounce out of his bedroom any moment and carry on an experiment on the different types of deadly mold one could grow with common kitchen ingredients or set to testing their various combustion points or something else mad but amusing. 

But Sherlock never made an appearance and John was left to eat his curry alone in front of the telly. It should have been peaceful but instead John found he was restless in the quiet of the empty flat. When he went to bed early he blamed fatigue from the case, but in his heart he knew it was the silence that drove him upstairs.

He was relieved the next morning to find Sherlock curled up tightly on the couch in his dressing gown and pajamas, seemingly having decided to skip the experiments altogether and go right to the sulking stage. He was less pleased with the note attached to the kettle. In Sherlock's messy all caps writing it boldly declared, “Important project in progress: DO NOT DISTURB ME.” A bit rude and abrupt but also in character for the man, John just shrugged it off and went about a normal off day. 

He caught up the little chores that fell to the wayside when they are busy on a case. He also felt not even the slightest bit guilty swiping Sherlock's bankcard out of his wallet when he went shopping to replace all the food in the kitchen. After another too quiet evening made only somewhat more bearable by Sherlock's physical presence in the room John retired upstairs again. Sherlock did not move so much as a muscle the entire day.

Nor did he move the next day, John was sure. Before leaving for the surgery he stuck a sticky note to the back of that blue-clad back requesting that Sherlock text him when he was done with what ever he was doing. He also balanced a teaspoon on the side of the detective’s head. Both were still in place when he returned.

Day three was where John drew the line. He came down that morning to find the sticky note and spoon still in place. That meant that it had been at least forty-eight hours since Sherlock had drank any fluids and it was probably more like seventy-two hours. He didn't care how important whatever it was Sherlock doing John was not going to let the man become dangerously dehydrated for it. He toyed with the idea of calling in to work for that day but heavens knew that he was already treading on the thin edge of Sarah's patience there. Besides, maybe another ten hours would give Sherlock time to finish and save him from the tantrum of a project interrupted. 'God,' he thought to himself, 'It really is like I am living with a two-year old.' Still all he could do was leave a more strongly worded note over the one still stuck to Sherlock's back now demanding a text as soon as possible and leave for work. 

It was a long day. Between the worry and his constant compulsive checking of his phone for texts he knew he was far from the best doctor he could be. It was somewhat less comforting to note that half his attention was more than what was required to deal with most of his patients. By the end of the day he was anxious enough to get home that he hailed a cab rather than take the Tube. He then proceeded to work himself up into a fine temper thinking about arrogant, childish gits who couldn't even be bothered to look after their own basic bodily needs.

When they stopped at Baker Street John all but shoved the fare at the cabbie, stomped up to the door, and slammed it open, ready to pound up the steps and drag Sherlock off the couch and shake some sense into him.

The clearly recognizable sound of a baby crying stopped him dead in his tracks.


	2. Chapter Two

Sherlock had expected it to take awhile so he had picked the time for his project with care. 

He knew that Lestrade and his brother had long been planning a trip together to the south of France of all the places to go. He was offended that they would go somewhere so cliched, almost as offended as he was that they thought he still didn't know that they were dating. Honestly, it was so obvious that he was relatively certain that even John had deduced it. Of course John was very clever so that was hardly a fair sample group. Still, it was proving very convenient. With no Lestrade to call him for cases and with his brother's meddling a couple of hours removed and hopefully distracted by activities that Sherlock did not want to at all contemplate he finally had the opportunity to complete his task.

So it was that the day after the case he had dragged out just long enough to throw Mycroft's vacation time table into chaos and after his transport was sufficiently rested he began preparations. First he ate everything he could find in the kitchen despite his body's objections, knowing he would need the calories. Then, while the food was being translated into energy he ran several errands necessary for him to disappear for several days and necessary for his end goal. 

He was somewhat disappointed when he returned to find John already up in his own room but he decided that a note explaining that he was not to be distracted would be enough if not nearly as good as talking to John and watching the look of puzzlement and exasperation that surely would have played across his expressive face at Sherlock's odd demand. But Sherlock did not have time to think about John's face right now if he wanted to get this done, he shrugged the thought off and changed into his most comfortable, loose sleep tee shirt, pajama pants, and his favorite dressing gown. He had after much thought decided that the couch would be better for his purpose, knowing that John would be less likely to rouse him if he could be seen readily. He curled into a tight ball on the cool leather and began to focus his mind. It was an imagine of John's smiling face that was the last clear thought he had before his mind went blank and he began to divide.

John's face was the first thing he saw when he came back to awareness, frowning down at him in concern. The late afternoon light slanting in from the two front windows was painfully bright, casing a golden halo around John's head. His lips were forming words, his name Sherlock thought, but his hearing was just starting to come back online and it was overwhelmed by the sound of a baby howling. 'Well, that is probably a good sign,' he thought a little hazily. He moved to press his fingers to his aching eyes and was appalled at the weakness of his arm.

When he looked back up John had shifted his gaze from Sherlock's face down to the source of the loud crying and was now staring at his stomach where his sleep tee was writhing. Inexplicably John looked horrified. Sherlock's recovering hearing just picked up his fearful, “Oh God, alien.”

Sherlock blinked at the non sequitur, puzzled for very much not the first time by how John's mind worked. John, however, was still staring at his abdomen like he genuinely thought it was extra-terrestrial in origin. Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Oh for God's sake, John!” he said. Annoyance gave him the energy needed to draw up his shirt, exposing the squirming infant cradled there.

Unfortunately this did not help John over his paralysis, although the horror thankfully subsided into shock. His voice was hushed as he asked, “What is that?”

Sherlock sighed dramatically, “It is a baby.” He left off the 'obviously' though somehow it still hung in the air.

“Whose baby?”

“Ours.”

“What the fuck?!” Here John lost all capacity for coherent speech and began trying to communicate entirely in truncated syllables. 

Sherlock interrupted him, “Really John? While I can appreciate a healthy sense of curiosity, wouldn't it be better to save that and your histrionics for a later time. Maybe after we we have fed and clothed the child.” When John just stayed there, leaning over him on the couch and staring Sherlock added “Well, I know that paediatrics was not your specialty I am sure that with your many years of medical training you can muddle through cutting an umbilical cord.”

The stare continued so Sherlock tried a different tactic barking out, “John! We need the medical kit now.”

Years of battle honed reflex took hold finally breaking John's shock. He was up and back with his medical bag and a bottle of water in less than a minute. He set the bag down on the coffee table and handed the bottle to Sherlock. “Drink that, you need the fluids.” When Sherlock opened his mouth to argue John cut him off, “Are you going to drink it willingly, or am I going to have to 'help' you?” The tone of his voice left little doubt about the nature of that help. Sherlock meekly reached for the bottle. “Right,” said John and he fished a packet of sterile gloves out of it and disappeared towards the loo, Sherlock presumed to wash his hands.

Needing a better angle to sip his water, Sherlock slowly rolled over on to his back, cradling the infant to him with his free hand. His muscles protested the movement and their three days of inactivity and the four to five percent loss of mass that had been a side effect of the process. He took a small drink and looked down, curious about the little still screaming bundle. From his current vantage point all he could observe was part of a red face squinched in outrage and head of auburn curls, much lighter and more red in color than his own hair. He made a note to obtain some pictures of his own childhood for comparison sake. Tentatively he ran his fingers through the curls, meaning only to catalog their texture. 

At his touch the baby's cries stopped abruptly and Sherlock looked quickly back down towards the face to make sure everything was alright. A solemn pair of grey eyes met his own and something he didn't have words for happened inside his chest. It felt as though the vast infinity of space was suddenly inside his ribcage, huge and lonely. When, after a moments regard, the baby cooed and reached a small uncoordinated fist up towards him that empty feeling was replaced by a warm glow, bright as a bonfire. He did recognize that feeling, it was the same one he got whenever John smiled one of his just-for-him smiles. Sherlock knew he was in love. He had expected it though he hadn't known it would happen so fast. Without removing his hand from those incredibly soft curls he reached up with his other hand, still holding the water bottle, down to prod the tiny clenched hand. Immediately the fingers uncurled and wrapped around his own and he found out that contrary to his previous conclusion he could love the infant even more.

He wasn't sure how long he and the baby regarded one another, but the spell was broken by John gentle clearing his throat. His eyes were glistening and the smile on his face tender as he looked at Sherlock. Sherlock was pretty sure that he was in the process of exploding from the sheer amount of love in the moment. John must have felt the same as with another throat clearing he turned and began to lay things from his medical bag out on a cloth on the coffee table.

While his head was turned and his hands busy John again asked, much more calmly this time, “Whose baby is that?”

“Well, technically it is mine, though I was rather counting on your help.”

“Okay, and where did you get a baby?”

Sherlock's answer was indignant. “It is not like I just went around to the shops and picked a baby up like a quart of milk.”

“You never get milk.”

“Not the point, John.”

“Then if you didn't pick up a baby at the Tesco's where did you find one?”

“I didn't find one anywhere, I made him.”

“How? With stuff you found around the flat?!” John's voice had gotten steadily louder and the baby made an unhappy noise.

Sherlock started running his fingers through the baby's hair soothingly, “Keep your voice down. And yes, in a way I converted the food and my own body into this infant.”

“That is impossible.” John paused in thought for a second before adding, “Unless you were born a different gender than you are now, which would be fine. Of course, seeing as how I am relatively sure you were not pregnant last week even that seems out of the question.” While his voice was again beginning to go up in volume, John's hands were steady. He looked at the instruments he had laid out and back at the baby before asking, “Just like a regular umbilical cord?”

“Yes, just less messy.” Sherlock responded. “And no, I have never been female. As a man at least nominally of science you must know there are other methods of reproduction.”

John paused in the middle of reaching for the infant, hands just a few inches away. “Oh, God. Are you going to tell me that you laid an egg?” The baby, looking curious, let go of Sherlock's finger to reach out and take a hold of John's gloved one. Sherlock watched as the look of annoyed disbelief on John's face transformed into a delighted grin.

The warmth was back in his chest, making his answer come out sounding less imperious than it might have. “That is ridiculous. Do you see any egg shells around me? No, I grew him by a form of reproduction called 'budding.' I used cell division to create a polyp from my navel, then allowed that outgrowth to develop using tissues and muscle mass from my own body to form a copy.”

“'Cause that is clearly less ridiculous than you laying an egg.” John said, as he used both hands to turn the baby on to it back so he could examine the six or so inches of flesh that did indeed seem to link Sherlock and the baby's navels. The baby kept a solid grip on his finger through the procedure. “Can you feel it when I touch it?” he asked as he pinched the cord gently. 

“No.”

“Good, that should make this easier.” John picked up a length of surgical suture and with seeming reluctance freed his finger from the baby's grip so he could began to tie the suture around the cord near the baby's stomach. The baby watched in fascination. 

“Do make sure to keep it short.” Sherlock fussed. “I want him to have an innie.”

“Of course, Your Highness. And you mean her.”

“Her!” Sherlock exclaimed. He started to sit up in surprise, before John's hand and his own weakness stopped him. “It is a girl?!”

John gestured at the baby now laying on her back on Sherlock's stomach and said in a poor imitation of his deeper voice, “Obviously.”

“But that isn't possible. It should be an exact genetic copy of myself.”

“Really? You are telling me that you just grew a baby out of your belly button and the fact that she is a girl is what you are going to disbelieve?”

“Well, yes. Many animals, plants, and even single celled organisms reproduce via budding, that is not uncommon at all. All it takes is the proper focus and enough intellect.”

John shot him a look of incredulity before he reached out for the short bladed surgical scissors. “You are saying that you defied millions of years of human evolution simply by being clever?”

“Yup.”

“If anyone could do it, I suppose it would be you.” John said and decisively snipped the umbilical cord.

Sherlock flinched a bit as the scissors closed but the expected flair of pain never came. He took another sip of water to try and cover the flinch before continuing, “So you admit that you can see how I could create an infant.”

“There is a big difference between 'If anyone could, you could' and 'You could.'”

“Just three words different.” When John just rolled his eyes at that Sherlock when on, “Besides, it has clearly happened, and once you eliminate the impos-”

John cut him off, “Yes, I know impossible so it must be improbable... Don't you ever get tired of saying that?”

“Not when it means I am right.” Sherlock said with what he felt was undeniable logic.

“Well, you weren't right about the gender, were you? That is twice you have wrongly assumed someone it a male.”

“But it is almost unheard in budding for the offspring to be a different gender! Only in Apis dorsata, the giant honey bees of Asia, were worker bees were able to successfully bud offspring of a different sex, creating a new Queen for their hive.”

John looked fondly down at the infant, who was still watching John as he finished tying a second knot of suture close to Sherlock's stomach. “Guess that just makes you a little bee then, doesn't it?” John said, tapping the infant's nose with his pinkie before reaching for the scissors again.

This time Sherlock didn't flinch as the blades closed. Instead he instructed John, “Keep the cord, I want to study it.”

“Sherlock...”

But Sherlock kept talking over his objection, “There is a bag in my room, it has a specimen jar for the cord. Oh, and clothes, formula, and nappies.”

John looked a bit surprised but said gamely, “Great, I thought I was going to have to go around to the shops.” 

John moved to stand up from where he had been sitting on the coffee table. Before he could start towards the bedroom Sherlock asked, “Could you take her with you? There is a scale on the kitchen counter, and I wanted to get her temperature and heart rate but...” He trailed off not wanting to admit that his transport was still too weak to move off the couch.

John must have heard the admission anyway. Worry was written across his face as he agreed too easily, “Of course, but first we are going to get you sitting up, you lazy git. Hold the baby.” And John plucked the water bottle from his hand and deftly manhandled him up until he was propped in the corner of the couch. John then took the nearly empty water bottle to the kitchen and refilled it. On the way back he even grabbed the afghan from the chair by the door to drape over him. “When I come back you are going to have finished that water as well. Then you are going to eat something.”

“Yes fine, Dr Watson.”

John took the baby's heart rate with the stethoscope from his medical bag before picking her up out of Sherlock's lap and carrying her into the kitchen. He called out the weight, which Sherlock noted in his mind palace, and fetched the bag from his room before returning with bag and baby to the sitting room.

Sitting down on the couch next to him, John tipped the contents of the bag out on the increasingly cluttered coffee table.

“Only two outfits?”

“Yes, how many could she possibly need?”

John barked out a laugh at the innocent ignorance behind that question.

“What is so funny?” Sherlock demanded.

“Oh, you'll see.” John answered as he cut the tags off one of the bodysuits with the same scissors he had used on the umbilical cord. “I am surprised that you found a purple one though.”

“It is 'aubergine' and it is a very good color on us!”

“It is at that,” John answered, shooting him a look that coming from anyone else Sherlock would have called a leer. A small part of his mind was interested in the fact that all the oxygen seemed to have left the sitting room while the majority of his brain worked on breathing in the wake of that look. By the time he figured it out again, John had the baby in a nappy and was snapping the flap of the bodysuit closed.

“Here, hold her again,” John said, depositing the baby back in Sherlock's lap. “And finish your water. What do you fancy for dinner? Beans on toast or soup?”

“Oh, be still my heart.” Sherlock responded, the sarcasm comforting and familiar. “How am I to choose between two such culinary marvels?”

“Right, tinned soup it is.” When Sherlock groaned John added, “Oh- and we might have some of those croissants you like so much from that French bakery in Soho.” Sherlock brightened considerably and John smiled. “Great, I'll be back in a tick. Drink the water.”

Sherlock dutifully sipped the water, listening to John putter around in the kitchen and watching the baby lay in his lap. She seemed to find the experience of being clothed fascinating and kept wiggling and squeezing the cloth of the bodysuit in her fists. Luckily John was true to his word and was back with a mug of heated soup, a plate with a toasted croissant, and a bottle for the baby just about the time she was tiring of this activity and starting to get fussy. 

“Here,” John handed him the mug and balanced the plate on the arm of the sofa. “It is beef and barley. I figured you'd need the protein.” 

The soup did in fact smell wonderful, and Sherlock's stomach gave an anticipatory growl. Still, he didn't take his first drink until John had lifted the baby out of harm's way.

John settled down in the chair by the desk looking sure and practiced as he tilting baby and bottle just so before bringing it to her her lips. She latched on quickly and sucked greedily. John smiled down at her before turning the smile up toward Sherlock, “Well, I guess she is just like you in that way at least, refusing to admit she is hungry until she is half starved.”

Sherlock would have refuted that statement, but he was already halfway though the mug of soup and several bites into the croissant. Instead he said in a questioning way, “This is not your first time feeding a baby.”

“Nope,” John freely admitted. “You know we didn't just treat soldiers and gunshot wounds in Afghanistan, right. We did what we could for the people too. And sometimes, too often really, that meant treating children and even babies.” John answered, looking unbearably sad.

Sherlock cast around for a change of subject, finally falling back on rudeness and humor, “Good, I would hate to be forced to look for a new more skilled flatmate right now. Maybe we can wait a couple of months until she is more settled in to replace you.”

“Berk,” John rejoined, flipping him a very rude gesture for someone holding a baby in their arms. But the sadness was gone from his face so Sherlock wasn't going to complain. 

They lapsed into an easy silence while Sherlock finished up the last bit of his dinner. He was done before the baby finished her bottle and he allowed himself a moment to just sit there, enjoying the warm, domestic scene before him. He didn't noticed his eyes growing heavy, or feel the empty mug drop from his fingers he was so enraptured by the sight of John, holding and quietly talking to their child. Nor would he later remember his head bumping into the wall as sleep claimed him.


	3. Chapter Three

John looked at the peacefully sleeping detective snoring on the couch, then down at the sleeping baby in his arms and wondered why he was not more freaked out. After all it was not every day that one came home to find one's flatmate had defied all known rules of biology and was now against all odds a father.

But, for better or worse, John had a practical mind. While he would never be able to keep up with the amazing observations and deductions Sherlock made, he would always remember to pay the utilities and buy food for the flat which was often times more useful. So, instead of focusing on the monumental 'how' of the baby he held, John put down the still half full bottle and took a notebook out of the desk drawer. Careful not to wake the sleeping infant tucked against him he began a list of all the things they would need to do the next day.

The night dragged on forever. True to form and genetics the baby slept very little, waking John every hour or so for a bit more formula and a lot of attention. Around dawn she finally settled into a deeper sleep and John breathed a sigh of relief and settled down for a longer nap himself. So, of course, that is when his phone rang. 

John tried for an awake and alert sounding hello, but failed miserably going by Sarah's apologetic tone. “I am so sorry to wake you up so early John, but Dr Orr is still stuck at the hospital in Devon with her mum. Could you cover for her again today?”

John meant to calmly decline but what he did was start laughing.

It must not have been a very comforting laugh. Sarah demanded, “John? John?! Are you alright?”

It took him several seconds to get under control before he could answer, “Yes, sorry. I can't come in today, no.”

“So I gathered.” she said dryly, then asked again, “Are you sure you are alright?”

“Yeah, fine. Just things have been a bit crazier then usual around here.”

“Wow, that is really saying something isn't it?”

John peered over the fortress of pillows he had built on the other half of his bed at the bawling baby. “Yeah, isn't it just?”

The movement must have brought the racket into hearing range of the phone. Sarah asked, “Sherlock having a strop? It sounds like a baby crying.”

“Er...” was all John could think to say.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. Then she repeated it softer, “Oh...”

“Yeah, like I said, madder than usual. It might be a couple of weeks before I can come in to cover again.”

“Okay, sure. Whatever you need, just let me know if I can help.”

John thought she probably meant she could help with bail money for the kidnapping charges he and Sherlock were bound to face and not help with the check-ups and vaccinations he would need to get somehow for a legally nonexistent child. Still he knew she meant the offer sincerely and the gratitude was clear in his reply, “Thanks Sarah. For everything.” 

“Of course. Good luck, and call if you need anything.”

“Thanks,” he said again and rang off.

He looked at the still crying infant and reached the sad conclusion that the sleeping part of his night was well and truly over.

It was a very tired and surly John who stood in the kitchen twenty minutes later. He was making coffee and yet another bottle. 'Bottle warmer' had moved up the day's shopping list and now was second only to 'stronger coffee.' 

He was less than welcoming when a well rested, freshly showered Sherlock breezed into the kitchen with a casual, “Ah, good. You've already made the coffee.” before sitting at the table looking expectant.

John knew that if looks could kill the one he gave Sherlock right then would have done the trick. Once more he was pretty sure not even Mycroft would have blamed him for the death. He very pointedly didn't pour Sherlock a cup of coffee, rather he thrust the baby and bottle at the git. “Here, you feed her this time you lazy sod.”

Sherlock was shocked, “But John, I don't know how to...”

John interrupted, “Sure you do. Just hold your arm a bit closer to your body like so.” John nudged the arm into position and laid the baby across it, then stopped, arrested by the look on the detective's face. It was awe and fear all wrapped together. As John watched Sherlock gazing at the child in his arms for the first time as if she was simultaneously radioactive and made of the finest porcelain he found he couldn't hold on to his anger. His voice was much gentler when he handed the bottle over and said, “Now just hold it to her mouth. No, angle it a bit more. Yeah, like that. Great.” He took another second to enjoy the sight of a wonder filled Sherlock and a happy daughter, then turn toward the loo. He called back over his shoulder, “I am just going to take a shower and change.”

“No,” Sherlock said, panic in his voice, “You can't leave me alone with her! What if I do something wrong?”

John stepped back over to the pair, resting a hand on Sherlock's arm and looking him in the eye. “You'll be fine. I'll only be gone ten minutes, she likely won't even be done eating in that time. Just don't drop her and when I get back I'll show you the joys of burping and we can decide what we need to do today, yeah?” Sherlock still looked worried and John had to fight the mad impulse to lean over and kiss the top of his head in assurance. Instead he kissed the baby's curls and said again, “Ten minutes and I'll be less than twenty steps away the whole time. Okay?”

Sherlock nodded, albeit reluctantly.

“Good,”John said and walked back towards the bathroom.

John took what was likely one of the quickest showers of his life and, true to his word, was back in the kitchen before the bottle was finished. Sherlock was still sitting at he table ramrod straight and looking no less petrified. So John make a point of ignoring him in favor of pouring himself a cup of coffee and starting some toast. “Fancy something more? I have all the stuff for omelets.”

Sherlock looked up from his intense scrutiny of the baby at that before remembering his disdain for all things transport and quickly looking back down. John, long time interpreter of the subtle language of Sherlocks, started taking the omelet ingredients out.

A few minutes passed in silence while John cooked until Sherlock said, “She is still drinking, John. Is that normal?”

“Yes it is perfectly normal. In fact if you had been up at all tonight you might have noticed that all she does is eat and complain”

“All this drinking must be tedious for her. Surely-”

John cut him off, “She already has your distaste for sleep, let's not encourage her not to eat as well.” He pointedly set the omelet in front of the detective and moved to take the baby.

“But John...”

“She'll be fine with me for a couple of minutes while you eat.” he said, freeing Sherlock's arms from baby and bottle. “Now eat while it is still warm.”

For a wonder Sherlock did tuck into the food with uncharacteristic zeal and John congratulated himself on his successful translation. 

He took a moment to study the man, gauging his improved health. He still looked gaunt and a bit haggard but the weakness and grey pallor appeared to be gone. Trust Sherlock to bounce back in less than a day from his, John's mind stuttered over what to call it, his experiment? His act of creation? No, of course: His great labor. John couldn’t help but snort at the moniker causing Sherlock to glance up at him. John just shrugged at him unwilling to explain the joke to such an unappreciative audience. He started a mental note to use it later in the blog before realizing that none of this was going to be able to go into the blog. Well, maybe them having a baby should be mentioned but certainly nothing about how she'd been, and again he stumbled for the right term, it would have to be born, right? He couldn't very well go around telling people she had been budded.

Sherlock was still watching him looking as amused as if he had read every thought directly from John's brain. He probably had too, the bastard. John ignored him and focused again on the practical.

A quick check of the baby confirmed that she was just pretending to drink while she observed the kitchen around her, John was sure she was already making great deductions. Sherlock seemed equally done with his omelet and was now just pushing the last couple of bites around the plate while watching the baby out of the corner of his eye. Well, John thought, that would work out just fine. “You done?” he asked.

“Clearly.” Sherlock said, already holding out his arms for the baby with much more confidence. He gave her back over with a tea towel and a few pointers on burping that Sherlock scoffed at, “Really John, I am not an idiot.”

John was almost relieved to have arrogant Sherlock back, hesitant and caring Sherlock had been doing mad things to his emotional control. All he said was, “Alright. Well, I have a list of things that need to get done today.”

“Ah good. I was planning on going by St Bart and seeing if Molly had anything new.”

“No! You are not going to hare off and leave me to watch the baby!”

“Of course not, I was going to take her with us. I am sure Molly will be enchanted and therefore much more pliable.”

John, who had been building up to a furious row about Sherlock taking responsibly, deflated at the 'us.' “Oh, well, no. We have too much to do today.”

“What could we possibly have to do that is more important than the Work?”

“Shopping for a start.”

“I got formula and nappies, what more does she need?”

“She has a tiny can of formula, it is already almost half gone.”

“It was the one with the best rating from several medical journals!”

“Well, that is really good to know.” John paused as a thought crossed his mind. “Actually, if you could grow a baby why couldn't you figure out how to lactate?”

Sherlock turned his head towards the baby he was joggling slightly over one of his shoulders and muttered something.

“I am sorry,” John asked. “What was that.”

“I didn't want to.” was Sherlock's shamefaced reply. “It would have ruined all my shirts.”

A second of stunned silence passed before John laughed loudly and Sherlock turned more red. Luckily for him the baby chose to be offended on his behalf, crying at the unexpected noise. For a second Sherlock's panic returned before he hid it back away. John saw it though and reassured, “She'll be fine, just keep holding her. And we should probably get some pacifiers today too.”

“You know best, doctor. I suppose you are going to get her all manner of other unnecessary things too.”

“Unnecessary? You mean like a cot and a bottle sanitizer and a few blankets?”

“Exactly.”

John sighed. He was exhausted, the baby was still crying, and Sherlock had his stubborn face on. It was shaping up into a long day.

Hours later as they were leaving what John vainly hoped would be the last store he would ever have to set foot in to in his life, he reflected that it could have gone worse. 

The baby had fallen asleep in the cab to the first store and stayed asleep even when they slipped her into the pushchair they bought there. She woke up at the second store and John had be able to interest her in a set of soft rattles that strapped to her wrists. Sherlock disapproved of the toy but John was pretty sure that was because they were shaped like the sun and moon and John had mostly purchased them to tease him. 

He wasn't entirely sure though as Sherlock seemed to have a problem with all the toys and most of the outfits the shops offered and argued bitterly against everything John picked. John was on the verge of bludgeoning him to death with the very heavy baby bag when he had a brilliant idea and suggested that since Sherlock was that unhappy with the choices offered he could order the rest of the stuff they needed online and to his own exacting standards if they could just pick out the basics today. After that a very pleased detective spent the rest of the shopping gently rocking the pushchair with one hand while furiously browsing on his phone with the other. The baby rattled her wrists contentedly and John finished the shopping in peace.

After the third store John knew they had to head home for lunch and another bottle. He waited for Sherlock to hail a cab with his special cab hailing black magic but Sherlock made no move to do so. John gave him a puzzled look and started to ask him what he was waiting for when the sleek black town car pulled to the kerb in front of them.

Sherlock pushed the baby towards the car, “Come on John, we might as well not keep Mycroft waiting.”

John sighed, picked up the myriad of bags and followed resignedly.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock was grateful but wary when the black car with its silent driver deposited them back at Baker Street rather than the usual dank industrial building or silent marble club. It was unlike Mycroft to cede any advantage to him in one of their skirmishes. Bringing them here now could be a point to Sherlock in their endless game designed to put him at ease for later moves, or it could be Mycroft trying to score a point by treating the flat as his own territory, or it could just be a tacit acknowledgment that the baby's needs came first. Or it could be a bit of all those things, it was always hard to tell with Mycroft.

John was having no such qualms about Mycroft and his motivations, he looked wholeheartedly relieved to be home. With the experience of the often abducted John did not get out of the car until after the driver had popped open the boot and with the unquestionable authority of a captain of the Royal Army Medical Corps he had said driver carrying their purchases up the stairs before they could think to object. Sherlock was openly amused by this and he flashed a smile at John but the other man was too busy trying to wrestle the pushchair inside with a steady stream of soft but colorful curses to see it. 

Sherlock had the foresight when the car pulled up to take charge of the infant knowing that the one with the baby would not be the one to carry the bags upstairs. Now he double checked that she was still wrapped securely in the orange blanket they had bought for her. 

The blanket had been something of a compromise, John had wanted to get her a pink one but Sherlock had refused, “Less than a day into parenthood and you are already trying to impose socially dictated gender roles on her?!”

“It is just a bloody blanket blanket, Sherlock. Not a gateway to oppression.”

“That is how it starts, with a bit of pink clothes, next you are buying stuff that says 'Princess' and then before you know it she is going to be in beauty pageants.”

By the end of his impassioned speech several of the new parents around them were glowering at him. John had just sighed and put the pink blanket back and grabbed the orange one. When he put it in the cart next to sleeping baby he leaned down to kissed her head and whisper, “You can always be my princess, little bee.” Sherlock had struggled to keep the stern disapproval on his face rather than the soppy grin that wanted to spread there.

He could feel the grin trying to resurface at the memory but again kept it at bay. Any show of emotions within 50 meters of Mycroft was inadvisable. So, with the blanket firmly in place he side-stepped where John was still losing his battle with the pushchair and strode confidently up the stairs, passing the bemused driver on the landing. He was as ready as he could be for the upcoming conversation and just wanted it over with.

He walk into the flat and directly into the disproving gaze of his brother. Mycroft was leaning casually against the desk between the sitting room windows facing the door, his umbrella hooked over one of the arms he had crossed over his chest. “Brother,” he said dryly. Then with a glance at the bundle in his arms he added with a questioning tilt of his head, “Niece?”

“Mycroft.” Sherlock answered dismissively, ignoring the question and his brother in general to walk over to the couch. He sat down with unaccustomed care and looked around reflexively for John's laptop which was more often charged than his own and had the added bonus of inspiring John to make an adorably annoyed face at him. Sadly John's computer was on the desk so he was forced to settle for his own tablet which would hardly be better for shopping then his phone had been. It would however provide him with a reason to continue ignoring Mycroft should he need it. 

At the moment the arrival of the driver had distracted Mycroft. The young woman stood for a moment just inside the doorway, arms laden with packages, blinking around the cluttered room for a place to put her burdens down. John called up the stairs, “Oh, if you could just put those in the kitchen...” There was a pause as John entered the room and looked into the kitchen. He amended, “Okay, probably not in the kitchen until I have a chance to decontaminate it. Er, just drop them on the floor somewhere. The pushchair is still down on the pavement if you would bring it into the building for us then you can go.” The driver was only too happy to flee back down the stairs and away from her employer's disapproval.

John added his bags to the pile on the floor before nodding briefly at the man next to the desk. “Mycroft.” he said in exactly the same dismissive way Sherlock had and turned into the kitchen, presumably to make a bottle and some tea. Sherlock made a mental bet on whether or not Mycroft would be offered a cup.

Several minutes passed in silence with Mycroft studying Sherlock and the infant and Sherlock ignoring him in favor of browsing the disappointing selection of macabre and murder themed baby toys as best he could with just one hand. No wonder there was such a lack of creative criminals in the world these days. 

“So,” Mycroft finally started, “It would seem congratulations are in order, little brother. If I may ask, how did this blessed event come about?”

“Well Mycroft, when a mommy and a daddy love each other very much...” Sherlock started.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, “Please, I am hardly the one here who would need the 'birds and the bees' speech, am I? Besides that is clearly not the case here seeing as how you have no interest in 'mommies' as a rule, do you Sherlock?”

Sherlock huffed, “How very narrow minded of you. Mommies can come in many forms after all.” And here he involuntarily glanced towards where the kitchen had gone suspiciously quiet.

Mycroft of course caught the look. “Ah well, even if you and your Doctor Watson have finally come around to a happy announcement of your own, that would still not explain just how the two of you acquired an infant to formalize it.”

“'Acquired?' As if babies are something you can just pick up at the store.” Sherlock replied. There was a snort from the direction of the kitchen and the sounds of tea being made resumed.

“I assumed that given your connections in the homeless community-”

Sherlock interrupted him, “Oh, you think I bought a homeless baby?”

“Well, I know you didn't adopt her through any legal or even popularly illegal means and I was giving you the benefit of the doubt on outright kidnapping.”

“Only because your little underlings checked all missing infant reports before they notified you of my spending spree today.”

Mycroft dipped his head briefly in acknowledgment, “I do value efficiency in my employees.”

“And you cannot conceive of any other way a sufficiently brilliant mind could find to reproduce?”

For the barest second Mycroft looked utterly puzzled and Sherlock reveled in the unprecedented victory. Mycroft was quick to recover and his voice was stern as he said, “Sherlock, did you even consider what a thorny issue cloning is both legally and ethically before you embarked on this mad whim of yours?”

“Hardly a whim and hardly cloning. I thought you were suppose to be the smart one.” Sherlock gloated. Mycroft narrowed his eyes sightly in response.

The glare was cut short by John reentering the room with the tea tray. Sherlock noted three cups, so Mycroft was getting tea today. “Really, you two are as bad as each other.” John said with exasperation. “There was no unlawful cloning here in the flat, Mycroft. Your precious propriety is intact. What Sherlock is avoiding telling you is that because he is ever so clever he figured out how to asexually reproduce.”

Mycroft turned his narrow gaze to onto John, “Asexually?”

John, never intimidated by that look, nodded. “Yeah, like a jellyfish or a worm.”

“Or a bee.” Sherlock added from the couch.

“Really, Sherlock. I have never understood your fascination with bees, ever since you where a little boy and you out grew your pirate stage you haven't let up about bees or murder.”

“I'll have you know that bees are fascinating!”

“So fascinating that you decided you would become one?”

“That is just ridiculous, I can’t become a bee. But any halfway competent fool can figure out how they reproduce and do it for themselves. Even you probably could Mycroft, childbearing would finally give you an excuse for all your weight gain.”

“Boys!” John cut in before Mycroft could reply, “The important thing that we really should be focused on is that through completely legal if unconventional means Sherlock now has a daughter.”

Sherlock's heart clenched when John called her his daughter. It was a familiar pain, the same one he felt every time John declared loud and annoyed that he was not gay. Somehow it was worse directed at the girl in his arms. Even so he was surprised to hear himself ask, soft and hesitantly, “You mean we have a daughter John?”

John, who had been in the middle of pouring a cup, set the teapot down sharply to turn towards him. For what felt like an eternity John stared into his face. Sherlock mentally berated himself for the slip. He had a whole speech planned to convince John to stay, but he had been too tired to try it last night then this morning John had been so full of things to be done and plans for the future that Sherlock had wondered if any speech would be required after all. But now she was 'Sherlock's daughter' and he had to know if he had messed up, if he was going to lose John after all. It didn't matter that he sounded pathetic or that Mycroft was witnessing the whole scene he just needed to know now and, oh God, John was still just staring at him. Sherlock felt the panic rising.

Then John gave him a wry half smile and said, “Right, our daughter.” He said it with a look that promised that there would be a long discussion about this later. Sherlock managed to contain his sigh of relief. Barely.

“Well,” Mycroft drawled, “Wasn't that touching?”

Sherlock was glad to turn his attention back to Mycroft where he was on firmer emotional ground. Leveling a glare at Mycroft was comforting. He was preparing a scathing retort but John beat him to it. Turning back to the tea tray he asked Mycroft, “Sugar or milk in yours, or are you watching the calories again? I might have some Sweetex.” Sherlock did not jump up and kiss the part in the hair at the top of John's head where it was bent over the tea for the perfection of that jab but it was a near thing.

Mycroft was less impressed, “No thanks, Doctor Watson. Black will be just fine.” 

John gave a little suit yourself sort of shrug and handed the cup and saucer to him, forcing Mycroft to uncross his arms and relinquish his umbrella. Another small win for John, he was becoming wonderfully adept at Mycroft handling for one not born to it Sherlock reflected.

“As I was saying,” John continued as he poured a second cup of tea and added sugar and milk for Sherlock, “The important thing is that we now have a daughter and you have a new niece who could use some help in the way of a birth certificate and other legalities.”

Mycroft took a sip of his tea, not quite hiding his wince at its unsweetened state, before he fixed John with his blandest face, “And why do you think that I would support you and Sherlock in this latest ill-conceived folly?”

John blinked in genuine bafflement, “Well, because she is your niece, and honestly because you always support Sherlock in his mad schemes.” Sherlock would have objected to the characterization, but John was doing so well he was loathe to interrupt.

“No, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft replied. “I do not support his 'schemes.' I am forever cleaning up his messes after him.”

“Well, this is no mess to be clean, is it? It is a baby, will you help us?”

Mycroft shifted his attention from John to Sherlock, saying slyly, 'I suppose I could be of some use to you. Of course, in return I could use you aid on a few projects...”

Sherlock huffed, here it was, the part of the conversation where Mycroft would use his power to try and force Sherlock into as much of his leg work as possible. He drew in a breath, ready to demand how much time and effort the paperwork would cost him when John surprised him.

“No. Absolutely not.” John said angrily. Then to Sherlock's further surprise John stormed over to him and with a gentleness that belied his harsh words, took the infant from his arms. He marched back over to Mycroft and stood before him, holding out the baby in a way that brooked no arguments. For the barest of moments Mycroft bent to the short doctor's will putting down his tea cup and taking the baby from him.

“Mycroft, this is your niece.” John continued, gesturing at the bundle in his arms. “She is not a pawn to be moved around or bargaining chip you can call in when you need a favor. She is your family. If that does not mean as much to you as I think it does you can leave right now and we will figure this all out on our own and you need never see this 'ill-conceived folly' again.” Sherlock did not think he imagined the look of panic the flitted across Mycroft's face at the threat. “However, if you would like to be a part of her life you are more than welcome to do so regardless of whether of not you choose to help us with her paperwork. But you will never try to leverage her against us again. Understood?”

Mycroft looked down at the baby still laying unperturbed in his arms watching the whole thing play out with too wise grey eyes. When he met John's glaze again it was with a slight nod of understanding, then he looked over to Sherlock, “Well? What name should I put on the birth certificate?”

Sherlock did his best to appear haughty rather than shocked at Mycroft's sudden cooperation as he answered, “Beatrice.”

John twitched in surprise but Mycroft just nodded, “Of course. Grand-mere always did favor you dreadfully. Do you have a middle name?”

“John?” Sherlock asked.

“That is a tad unconventional, but if you want...” Mycroft started.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “No, I meant 'John, what is her middle name to be?'”

“What?” John said bewildered.

“Again, unconventional but somehow more fitting.” Mycroft drawled. He was soundly ignored this time.

Sherlock sighed his 'You are being an idiot' sigh and repeated more slowly and possibly with a bit of condescension, “John, what middle name would you like for our daughter Beatrice?”

“God, I hadn't thought about names, honestly...”

Sherlock sighed again “Of course not. Well? In your own time.”

“But quite quickly,” Mycroft added. “I do have other places to be this afternoon.”

“Er, okay.” John said, “Beatrice...” he trailed off for several seconds before coming back with, “Lily.”

Sherlock, who had honestly been expecting Margaret for John's mother, repeated, “Lily?”

“Yeah well, 'Potter' would have been a bit too weird.”

For a moment both Holmes brothers looked blankly at John, who just shrugged and smiled his half smile back. Sherlock broke the moment, “Well, there you have it Mycroft. Beatrice Lily Watson-Holmes. Of course John will have to be on the birth certificate.”

“I had gathered as much.” Mycroft said loftily. “I will have all the appropriate forms to you in two hours. Congratulates.” He sounded more sincere when he said it this time and seemed even more sincerely reluctant to hand Beatrice back to John. He carefully straighten his jacket out again and ostentatiously checked both his cufflinks before starting to saunter out of the flat. 

He only took two steps before John called out to him, “You forgot your umbrella.”


	5. Chapter 5

John allowed himself a smile at the retreating form of the British Government, now tapping his umbrella on every other step on his way down to the street and his no doubt waiting car. He then turned that smile on the baby he held. “Well little Beatrice, you have been wonderfully patience but let's go get you a bottle, shall we? And maybe start some lunch for the rest of us.”

He stole a glance at the couch where Sherlock was now sprawling on his back, holding his tablet above his head with one hand while he flicked across the screen rapidly with the other. John was curious to see just what sort of baby toys Sherlock would find acceptable but he supposed him would have to wait until they started arriving to know.

Briefly he considered demanding that Sherlock help him with lunch or start to sort out some of the essentials they had bought today but he knew that would just end up being counter productive in the end. Besides, Sherlock always needed some time to recover from a Mycroft visit, no matter how well it had gone and John rather needed some time to think himself.

Over the long night before he had become adept at making bottles one handed, and it was a skill he put to good use now. While the bottle was warming he sat at one of the kitchen chairs and looked around the room, mentally moving appliances and science equipment to make room for the bottle warmer and the sterilizer they now owned. Then he thought about how eventually they would need a highchair and before that a permanent crib to replace the travel cot they had bought that day, and where would they put it, and, oh God, what would Sherlock be like trying to assemble furniture from IKEA?

The microwave beeped, shaking him out of his thoughts. He realized that once again he had let himself get distracted by the little logistics of life in order to avoid deeper, more troubling thoughts. It had been a habit he picked up while he was serving in active war zones and the had been of continuing use in his life with Sherlock, but right now he did need to work though some of those thoughts.

He stood up and grabbed the bottle, automatically shaking it gently to even out and check the temperature and when he was sure it wasn't too warm he put it to the baby's mouth. She latched on quickly and sucked greedily and John felt guilty for making her wait so long for it.

Settling back into the chair, and watched the baby, no, he corrected himself, watched Beatrice Lily Watson-Holmes drink her bottle. It was such a long name for such a tiny girl he thought. A name that was part his. He tried to feel worried about that, tried to find some panic for the lifetime commitment he had just made so casually, but looking at the round little face, so like Sherlock's already, all he could feel was joy and excitement for the challenge ahead.

Okay, maybe he didn't need to think deep thoughts about his feelings after all. He breathed a sigh of relief, he really hated trying to sort through emotions. The little girl in his arms gave a little gurgle that sounded like agreement but that was probably just gas. He reached for the last of the clean tea towels to throw over his shoulder and laid the baby against it for a burping.

Still, even if his conscious was straightforwardly pleased with the addition to their lives there were definitely still things the needed answered.

Sherlock chose that moment to flounce into the kitchen and collapse into one of the other chairs. He steepled his fingers underneath his chin and addressed John, “Okay, you've got questions.”

“Yeah, let's start off with why, Sherlock? Why would you grow us a baby?”

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively, “Obvious. Next?”

“No, it is not obvious to me. Is this some sort of experiment just to prove you could? To annoy Mycroft and so you could gather some first hand data on newborns until you are bored with her?”

“John! As if I would be that short sighted.”

“Yeah,” John gave a little snort, “'cause that never happens. So why? What made you decide without consulting me first that we really should have a child?”

“It was the Delaney case of course.”

“Delaney? You mean 'The Delinquent Diamonds?'” John asked, recalling the case. A sullen teenager, angry and feeling displaced by her father's new wife and son, had stolen the family's small fortune in jewelry and planted enough evidence to point the police at the father for insurance fraud. Luckily Sherlock had already been retained by the family to clear the man's name and was on hand when the daughter decided to try her hand at kidnapping her two year old half brother. The chase that followed saw them spend hours in the warren of smuggler's caves underneath the house much to John's claustrophobic discomfort and Sherlock's child-like delight. When they had found where the boy was being held John had the dubious pleasure of disarming and zip-tying a girl who weight barely seven stone.

Predictably Sherlock grumbled at the blog title but he also nodded, “Yes, during the eternity we had to wait for the local police to find us I had an abundance of time to observe your interactions with the young hostage. You proved to have an exceptional aptitude for neutralizing his distress and you were equally capable at keeping him calm. It occurred to me that you have a whole set of interpersonal skills that were not being used or developed much to mankind's loss. It was only logical and indeed beneficial to me to find you an outlet for your patience and your nurturing instincts.”

After taking a second to parse though that very Sherlockian explanation John clarified, “So, you saw that I like and am good with kids and decided to make us one?”

“John, you have developed the most annoying habit of reducing my deductions to their most simplistic form even when you are not writing one of your blog entries.” Sherlock sigh dramatically before continuing, “Yes, that is the gist of what I just said.”

John remembered the little boy, who had been absolutely adorable in his red overalls and who he had spent a great deal of time discussing the merits of blue trucks versus yellow cars with. He also had been there for the more than forty minute monologue Sherlock had given on smugglers and pirates that, while not entirely child appropriate, had included several sword fight reenactments and had kept the little boy spellbound. A few weeks after the case wrapped up the family had sent a thank you card including a drawing the boy had done of the three of them with swords and the sister tied up in the corner. It was still on their refrigerator. He didn't think for a moment that he was the only one who had been sad to return the boy to his parents. In retrospect maybe Sherlock deciding to give child rearing a go should not have been such a surprise. 

“Okay fair enough, and thank you.” John said. “Still, you could have asked me first.”

“You would have just said no. You would have pointed out how dangerous our lives are and how impossible it would be to fit a child in.” Sherlock hesitated a moment. When he continued it was with more than a hint of a question in his voice, “And you would have been wrong?”

John had to concede that, yes, had he been asked he would have said no. Now with the warm weight of a baby pressed against his shoulder he also knew that he would have been very mistaken indeed. He smiled across the table at Sherlock only to find himself looking at the top of a downcast head. 

Sherlock seemed to have taken his brief silence the wrong way and his voice sounded defeated as he said, “I am sorry if I didn't make the right choice, John. I know I rather sprung this on you and I'll understand if you don't want to take part. I can always text Mycroft back and get him to change the birth certificate-” John cut him off there, stretching across the table to lay his free hand on Sherlock's arm despite a discontented noise from the jostled baby in his other arm.

When Sherlock looked up John met his troubled eyes. “No, Sherlock. I am never going anywhere. Even if this hadn't turn out to be one of your more brilliant ideas, which, for the record it clearly was, I am always going to be here for you no matter what.”

“Always?” Sherlock asked, his deep voice catching a bit on the word.

John stroked his hand down Sherlock's arm to take a hold on his hand. Squeezing it gently he said, “Yes always, you git.” Then, feeling the need to break through the heavy emotions of the moment he added in a lighter tone, “Next time though maybe you could ask me before you go and redefine biological probabilities and asexually reproduce again, yeah?”

“Well,” Sherlock said with a try at his usual hauteur, “It is not really asexual if two parties are involved in the process, is it?”

“I guess not.” John looked at the odd, angular face of his flatmate and best friend across from him and something in him broke. Suddenly he just had to know if there was anything there behind the years of long looks and hints. He screwed up his courage and, as awkwardly as he had that first night at Angelo’s, he blundered on, asking, “Still, it is not exactly sexual reproduction is it? Is that that the way you would prefer it stay? Non-sexual that is. Which is fine by the way.”

“I know it is fine,” Sherlock answered seemingly on autopilot and John's heart fell. Then Sherlock, now awkward in his turn, continued on, “But just because I don't have to have sex doesn't mean I don't want to some time. Statistically a high percentage of sexual intercourse is undertaken without procreation in mind.”

“So you are interested in, er... non-procreational sexual intercourse then?” John was torn between amusement at the round about phrasing and embarrassment. “Just in general or did you maybe have someone in mind?”

Sherlock threw up his free hand in frustration, exclaiming, “ Oh for God's sake!” He stood up and moved quickly around the table to pull a startled John up by their still joined hands and into a kiss.

For all the passion in Sherlock's movements the kiss was gentle and just a bit hesitant. It was a question of a kiss and John's body definitely answered completely independent of his brain. He leaned up and pressed himself into the taller man, fully intending to turn it into a proper snog when the baby he held gave an irritated squawk then started crying. He pulled back, though not very far, and said with a wry smile, “Of course she has inherited your poor sense of timing.” 

Sherlock, looking a bit dazed, managed a roll of the eyes at that and objected, “I do not have a poor sense of timing!”

John's smile turned into a chuckle. “Yeah, you do. After all you waited to start a 'sexual' relationship until we had a newborn baby to look after. Here, let's finish feeding her and then we can put her down for a nap and finish this... discussion. Alright?”

Sherlock nodded reluctantly and began to move away but John pulled him back by the lapel for another quick kiss on the cheek before he moved closer to the ear not next to a screaming baby and whispered, “Always, you mad bastard.” 

Sherlock turn his head to meet John's eyes and the look on his face could only be called smoldering. Slowly, inexorably Sherlock moved in for another kiss. Which was when a voice called out from downstairs, “Boys! Why is there a pram down here?” Then a beat later, “Is that a baby crying?”

Sherlock grinned bright and wicked at John who couldn't help but grin back. With an unfair amount of ease Sherlock transferred the crying baby from John's shoulder into his own arms and made for the stairs. “Come on Beatrice, are you ready to meet your godmother?”

John sighed and grabbed the still warm bottle from the table and chased after them.

 

Epilogue 

“Daddy?” the little girl asked, looking up from her Anatomy for Beginner's coloring book.

Sherlock recognized the worry in the three year old's voice and immediately stood up from the slides he had been halfheartedly preparing and sat down next to his daughter. “What is it, Little Bee?”

“Is Papa sick?”

“No, he is fine.”

“Then why has he been in bed all day?”

Sherlock sighed. They had known she would notice, true to nature she noticed everything, but he had hoped to get to dinner before the subject was brought up. Still, there was no point to trying to deflect her, “Your Papa is going to be working on a special project for the next couple of days.”

“In bed?” she asked suspiciously.

“Yes, in bed.”

“What kind of project is it? Is it like an experiment?”

“That is right, and at the end of the experiment we are hoping that you might have a little brother or sister to play with.”

“Why would I want that?”

Sherlock smiled at the little girl and tweaked the end of her nose, “I am very much afraid that is a question you are going to spend the rest of your life pondering.”

Beatrice was gearing up for another question when the door leading to their bedroom swung open and John stumbled into the kitchen. 

“John!” Sherlock cried, springing up from the floor to help the staggering man to one of the chairs.

John coughed several times before he was able to rasp out “Sherlock.”

“Well? What happened? Did it go wrong?”

“No, I don't think so,” John managed to get out between coughs. “It didn't go quite as you described though.”

“Oh God, what do you mean?” Sherlock demanded. “What happened?” But John was coughing too hard to answer now and just waved weakly at the bedroom door.

With a great deal of trepidation Sherlock walked over to the open door, Beatrice close on his heels. When he stepped into the room he looked at the bed and felt his face go slack from shock.

Nestled in the pale blue sheets was an unbelievably large white egg.

(Not at all coming next: The Egg-speriment!)


End file.
